Soldiers Of Fortune
by Perfect Entropy
Summary: Mercenaries... People who the rest of the galaxy see as criminals.  But there are those who are not merely guns for hire, not merely mercs, but soldiers, men and women of honor. This is a story of some of 'those' mercenaries.  Original Characters.


Omega.

There were only two reasons that anyone would go to the godforsaken station that had more horror stories attributed to it than any other place in the galaxy.

People were either there to capitalize from the many illicit businesses and activities that the station had to offer, or hiding from them. Either one of them had a tendency to decrease the lifespan of anyone involved.

There were simply very few 'jobs' that you could have on Omega. You could be a mercenary, someone who dealt with something illegal for the larger part of the galaxy, or a vagrant. 'Industry and business' on Omega was limited to anything illegal in council space, drugs, weapons, and slaves made up the majority of that market. Mercenaries were what all of those businesses relied upon for protection from one another. Because on Omega, eliminating your competition often implied the liberal applications of explosives and hypervelocity rounds.

John Karil was one such mercenary, the military grade weapons and armor he wore not an uncommon sight on Omega as he walked down one of the corridors of the massive station, headed towards his favorite bar. A custom semiautomatic shotgun, hardsuit sans helmet, sidearm and combat knife probably wouldn't even be considered terribly threatening around this level. Shit, he could probably get away with saying that it was all just for 'personal protection' if anyone asked.

He had just finished the easiest job he had been hired for in a long time. He had served as 'protection' for a number of the more successful, and paranoid crime lords on Omega along with a number of other mercs. It was good money, boring most of the time, but the credits had been more than ample to keep him there for a month.

A huge number of freelancers like him owed the Turian vigilante, 'Archangel' for their new, cozy jobs recently. Normally, the larger groups would have had an immediate monopoly on such jobs, but with the harassment that the 'vigilantes' had kept up on them, the big players had stuck to their higher valued operations. Too bad it looked like he had up and died when all three of the major groups combined forces to take him out, though he had ground most of their operations to a halt for now.

Of course, all three outfits weren't just based on Omega, and they were probably all scrambling to reinforce their now precarious positions on the asteroid. John's logic told his that he ought to get out of the cushy job before the Blue Suns or Eclipse decided to make examples of small timers who had landed the jobs that they wanted. The job had let him tuck away a few thousand credits, and a few thousand more weren't worth sticking his neck out for.

So, a new job was in the order of the day… Or the next few weeks at least. A few thousand credits meant that he could live comfortably on Omega for a good while, unless someone found a way to steal it from him.

John cracked his neck as he entered the dingy bar. Sure, it wasn't the best of places, even by Omega's low standards. Fights in the place usually ended with the rather complacent bouncers dragging a body out the door. Unconscious most of the time, dead when unconscious wasn't enough. Still, after two years of coming here, he had yet to be either poisoned by the bartender, or one of those who was left out on the 'streets' of Omega for a scavenger to pick over. He was actually on good terms with the turian bartender there. On top of that, the establishment was also an unofficial gathering place for other mercenaries, and as such, he had found himself work here more times than he could count.

It didn't take much longer than a minute before he sat down at the bar that the bartender noticed him and came over.

"Thought you finally died, haven't seen you here in over a month. Thought that this place would finally be a bit quieter. Less shooting and fighting and all that." Atonn said as he pulled out a shot glass and one of the containers filled with the crudely distilled alcohol that passed for liquor on the station.

"But that's what makes it the best bar on this level." John said simply, allowing himself the slightest smile as he took the container and poured the shotglass himself. The 'scotch' in the glass looked somewhat… questionable. As he looked around, he noted that most of the occupants of the bar were carrying around the same amount of firepower as he was. "And I never start the fights anyway. I just end them." He said with a shrug as he tipped the glass back, the drink burning it's way down his throat.

"What, you think you're tough human?" Came a guttural voice from beside him. A Batarian, clad in armor and packing an assault rifle and heavy pistol. Most importantly, he was already on his feet, ready for a fight.

The Batarian's actions were actually pretty standard at a bar like this. If you were a merc and didn't have a job, picking and winning a fight in a bar wasn't a bad way of getting noticed, which got you a much better shot at landing another job. And John's statement only gave the four-eyed alien a reason to pick a fight with him.

Atonn walked away as John cracked his neck and looked at the Batarian. "Tough enough to beat the shit out of you." He said simply.

Before he had even risen from his seat, the Batarian's armored fist crashed into his face. On the way to the ground, he felt his head smash sickeningly against the bar's counter before he hit the ground. Dazed, he rolled over and swept his legs around, catching the alien's legs and bringing him to the ground as well.

John tasted his own blood in his mouth as he began to pick himself up. He didn't stop to dwell on that for long, launching himself into the Batarian as soon as he had managed to pick himself halfway off the floor.

He caught the Batarian right in the midsection with his shoulder as he tried to use one of the barstools to drag himself to his feet. The impact sent the barstool flying, and John slammed into the alien hard enough to knock the wind out of him and send him back to the ground. It was a simple matter then for John to get up to get up, kick the Batarian over and to begin to apply pressure to the Batarian's neck with his armored boot.

The coppery taste of blood coated his mouth, and the back of his head was already beginning to throb, but John managed to grin down at the Batarian as he put his hand on his pistol's holster.

It only took a moment before the alien seemed to stop struggling completely. Not because he was unconscious, but because he realized that the human had bested him. Every time he had moved, John had put a little more weight on the foot pressed against his neck. Only when he gave up completely did John remove his foot; the message was clear, he had won the fight.

John turned around, taking a few steps away from the Batarian without anything more than a self-satisfied expression. Sure, he might be bleeding, but he had won. He put his hand to his face, gingerly touching his nose, and then lip to check which was bleeding… It was only his lip.

He looked up, wondering what wry comment Atonn might have for him after that fight, expecting the Turian to just have a slightly amused look on his face. Instead he looked shocked, and was looking directly over John's shoulder. Before he could turn on his heels, John heard the retort of a pistol.

When he did turn around, there was a look of surprise on the face of same Batarian he had just fought. The same Batarian holding a gun pointed directly at him.

John leapt across the space between him and the alien. His kinetic barriers had been up, and had easily absorbed the impact of the single shot. A little bit of paranoia went a long way to saving your life, multiple times and multiple ways.

Just before the Batarian managed to fire another shot, John reached him. In a movement much more graceful than merely slamming into him, John grabbed the alien's wrist and elbow with separate hands, wrenched them in opposite directions with all of his strength. The Batarian howled in pain as elbow was very suddenly bent in the wrong direction. The bar had gone silent after the gunshot had been fired, and the snap that came from the injury was sickeningly loud.

The sound of pain turned to a gurgle, and the gurgle dropped to a rasp after another pair of movements from the human. The first was to grasp the combat knife that he had in a sheath on his own armor's chestplate and to rip open the exposed throat of the alien with a single slicing motion as he unsheathed the blade. The motion was natural, smooth, John's right arm had been hovering right over the handle after he had snapped the alien's arm.

After that he had simply let the momentum flow, turning on his heels to drive the blade directly through the Batarian's armor, deep into his chest. As he withdrew the knife, the Batarian slumped to the floor. It took only a moment for the alien to stop twitching… John stood over him the whole while, expressionless as he absentmindedly wiped the blood off of his combat knife. In a detached way, he noted that Batarians had red blood… But the color was a few tones off human.

Another second and it was like someone flipped a switch in the bar. All the conversations that had paused started again as soon as John turned away from the body. Mercenaries killing each other in bar fights happened on a day a day to day basis on Omega. The only response anyone had to the body on the floor right now was to ignore it.

"I told you. This place would be quieter without you, John." Atonn said simply when John returned, righted his seat, and sat back down at the bar. The Turian then slapped a small container of medi-gel next to the container of alcohol. "You do keep it interesting though."

John grunted, putting the container into one of the empty slots on his belt as Atonn walked away. A split lip wasn't worth using medi-gel. Silently, he poured himself a second shot.

Killing wasn't something John liked to do, especially not like he just had. Especially in ways that you could _feel_ the blade slicing through, or sinking into flesh. It was a sickening feeling, so much more personal and gruesome than pulling the trigger to any small arm.

As he put the shot glass to his lips, he heard a voice behind him. "Are you looking for work, human?"

John tipped the glass back, grimacing slightly as he turned around to face an Asari. "Depends on the work… The pay too."

The Asari paused for a minute, thoughtful. "How much is getting off Omega worth to you?"

John studied the Asari carefully. The offer wasn't something that'd be cheap. Not many ships would take mercenaries off Omega, at least not with their weapons, armor, and other equipment. Seemed that Blood Pack and the Blue Suns had too often used opportunities like those to 'liberate' ships for their own private use. He wouldn't leave his weapons behind; half of the credits that he had earned in the past three years were sunk into them.

"Enough to make me wonder what type of job it is." He said carefully. There were a few things he simply wouldn't do, but as long as this didn't involve slaves or killing noncombatants, he was game.

The Asari grinned slightly as she answered. "The job is hitching the ride off Omega. If you're interested." She nodded slightly towards one of the booths before turning away from him and heading towards it. The Turian at the booth was watching John like a hawk as he stood up and approached.

The offer seemed… Good. What harm could come of just seeing what it was all about?


End file.
